


here's what happens when you come home

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: zolf smith v the concept of emotional openness [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Gen, I Cannot Take Myself Seriously, Sasha and Not!Sasha are also here, Therapy, YES lads this is a therapy au. sue me. I have a brand to keep up, backstory will come, discussions of gore, it's a good time, mentions of Kepler YES that Kepler, mentions of past trauma, oh . also so many NPCs. please be on the look out, this is the first in a series so bear with me, which is promptly not allowed to stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: “Sure thing,” says Sasha as she helps him in. “Oh, and, uh— here.”Zolf is halfway through buckling his seatbelt when she pushes the flyer in his face. “What is it?”“Some private — group therapy thingy,” Sasha says, hands on the wheel, like the lasting imprints of feelings might physically wound her. “I dunno. It’s free. Made me think of you.”(or, yes I know this is my brand. yes I am writing an RQG therapy au. leave me alone)





	here's what happens when you come home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roswyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/gifts).



> HELLO. hi. yes I'm here to throw another therapy fic out at everyone. yes I know I have a whole magnus series about this. yes I know this is my niche. (something about rusty quill makes these seem?? necessary??) oh boy. 
> 
> that said, welcome! thanks for indulging me yet again. this will be a series of one-shots because I accidentally created a 15 year backstory and was surprised when I couldn't fit it in 2k words. what I can promise is Jonny d'Ville, tattoos, and the actual literal murder of Warren Kepler ( _yes,_ that Warren Kepler) because _I hate him._ Jaime, I told you I would. 
> 
> and thanks as always to ross. they know what they did. :)
> 
> working title for this was: CAN YOU PLEASE BE CREATIVE

Zolf Smith has never kept a high profile. The most he’s ever been recognised was after those stupid Navy recruitment posters went up, but he set sail in the coming weeks, so it didn’t really matter. Zolf joined the Navy at eighteen, because eighteen year olds do stupid things when they’re poor miners from Somerset, but the PR team liked his _story._ Thought it was _inspiring._ If this man could pull himself up by his own bootstraps, couldn’t everyone else?

There were a few others in the promotional photography group, equally fidgety about the whole affair, but it’s not like anyone was going to say anything. They grinned and bore it. They fit the narrative. On the poster, Zolf has a crew-cut, a pressed uniform, a non-regulation earring for flare, apparently, and a wide, cocky grin.

It’s been almost fifteen years. Zolf doesn’t look like that anymore.

That poster is the most recent record of the man known as Zolf Smith, however, and the soldier who has returned is more than a little camera shy, so this is the image that makes the news. The triumphant return home of a war hero is touted on every outlet alongside passionate reporters thanking Mr Smith for his true service to their country. Mr Smith, they say, is a true example of the Meritocratic Navy’s quality. Mr Smith, they say, is a true patriot. Mr Smith, they say, must be appropriately celebrated as a loyal, good, _true_ soldier, and a credit to the whole of the United Kingdom.

The first thing Zolf learns when he gets home is that his brother died.

The first thing Zolf does when he gets home is move to London. The second is to find a Meritocratic Health Services centre and get fit for a real prosthetic. There’s no internet and the wait is three hours long and it’s not like Zolf can drive _himself_ , so he has to use the front desk’s phone to call his new flatmate after the appointment.

Sasha, who knows London almost as well as Zolf _doesn’t,_ isn’t outwardly angry to see him, which in her book is a glowing review. “You alright?” she calls, rolling the window down. Zolf crutches his way out of the centre, having declined a wheelchair because he _doesn’t fucking need it, thank you,_ and makes his way towards the car.

“Fine,” he calls, embarrassingly out of breath for the short amount of time he’s spent on foot.

“You sure?” Sasha asks dubiously, then shakes her head. “Wait a second.” Almost faster than Zolf can process, Sasha slides out of the car and replaces one crutch with herself. “There we go.”

“I don’t — _need —”_ Zolf huffs, then sighs. “Fine.” Though he hates to admit it, he’s significantly faster with Sasha’s aid. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” says Sasha as she helps him in. “Oh, and, uh— here.”

Zolf is halfway through buckling his seatbelt when she pushes the flyer in his face. “What is it?”

“Some private — group therapy thingy,” Sasha says, hands on the wheel, like the lasting imprints of _feelings_ might physically wound her. “I dunno. It’s free. Made me think of you.”

“Cause I’m poor and fucked up, you mean?” he replies, a little too prickly, and Sasha gives him a _look. You get to snap at me when you sleep through the night,_ it says. _You get to snap at me when you can deal with closed doors._ Zolf deflates, glances down, rubs at the newly bandaged stump of his leg. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, alright,” says Sasha, starting the car, and he’s forgiven. The rest of the drive is silent.

* * *

So Zolf goes to therapy. It doesn’t even take any convincing. He calls ahead of time and asks if it’s anonymous. The woman on the line says it’s confidential, which isn’t the same, but — fine. It’s _fine._ Zolf’s already made up his mind.

On the day of the first session, Zolf puts on a nice shirt, long pants, and tries to make the heavy sound of the prosthetic any less obvious. It doesn’t work. And even if the noise were subtle, the limp would give him away.

Sasha drives again, this time to a ridiculously upscale office building that gives both of them pause. “Really didn’t think the Tahans had souls,” she remarks as she appraises it. “But they are... very shiny.”

“No kidding,” Zolf mutters, reaching for the car door’s handle.

“Wonder if the kid’s gonna be there,” Sasha muses absently, then explains at Zolf’s blank look, “Apparently the prodigal son’s coming back to participate in their therapy thing. Uh, Hamid, I think his name is.” He continues staring at her like she’s lost her mind. “What? Haven’t you watched the news?”

“Not really,” he says, trying not to sound bitter. “Mostly just trying to avoid interviews.”

Sasha nods sympathetically. “You were overshadowed a bit, mate,” she says. “I mean, not totally, but — Aziza al-Tahan? The opera singer? She died — well. She got shot and died, so it’s a bit different. Some horrible obsessed fan went on a rampage; Hamid had a semi-public breakdown in the theatre, and… c’mon, didn’t you even Google this whole program?”

“I saw ‘family tragedy’ and kept to myself,” Zolf replies, his gaze drifting back to the towering building.

“Well,” Sasha says, “look at it this way: no one’s gonna make a big deal about you when they’ve got this to talk about.”

* * *

That is basically the opposite of what happens. Zolf mumbles his name to a prim receptionist who, despite her obvious professionalism, can’t keep her eyes from widening, and honest-to-gods _whispers_ follow him down the hall. There’s only one hallway that leads to the conference room currently being repurposed for this branch of Tahan-sponsored therapy, so Zolf doesn’t get lost, but at least two people rise fully from their desks and ask if he needs help.

He doesn’t. He’s fine. The prickle of eyes on his back and the snatches of words floating throughout the office don’t make this any easier, though.

Zolf pushes the appropriately marked door open and limps towards the first seat into which he can collapse, next to two pointy looking darkskinned men having a private conversation. He’s early. The therapist hasn’t even arrived yet. Zolf keeps his mouth shut and his head down as people trickle in, but he’s still recognised anyway, and the whispers start up again.

Zolf keeps his mouth shut and his head down. If he stays still, it’ll hurt less, and if he doesn’t scream, he won’t give Kepler the _goddamn satisfaction—_

“Good morning,” says a kind, deep voice, and the door shuts behind a tall, absolutely jacked Black woman with a short ‘fro. She’s wearing a stylish pink tank top that shows off a delicate rose tattoo on one of her biceps, and her gold earrings dangle as she surveys the group. “I’m so pleased to meet you all!”

Her smile is dazzling white as she takes a seat, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m Dr Azubuike Nso, but please call me Azu,” she continues warmly. “I don’t wish to be too formal. Now—” Azu clears her throat. “If we could go around the circle and introduce ourselves, that’d be—”

“I am Bertrand MacGuffingham!” booms a man from across the circle, wearing what appears to be a yellow falcon-patterned Hawaiian shirt and is absolutely the ugliest thing Zolf has ever seen.

“—great,” Azu finishes with a sigh, and there’s a snort from next to Zolf’s shoulder.

He looks down. The man sitting next to Zolf is even shorter than he is, with warm brown skin and dark, perfectly coiffed hair. Zolf has been too busy trying not to be noticed that he hadn’t heard the newcomer sit down, but now he can’t _stop_ seeing him: the long, sloping nose, the perfectly pressed three piece suit in colours that should look ridiculous but don’t, the tiny, private smile.

With a jolt, Zolf realises that he recognises the man from the original pamphlet Sasha gave him, and her words float back from earlier that day. _This is Hamid al-Tahan_.

Sasha forgot to mention he was beautiful.

“What’s so funny?” Zolf asks sharply, because he can’t introduce himself like a regular person.

Hamid leans over and murmurs, “Just Bertie. I knew him from university. It… looks like he hasn’t changed.”

Zolf politely doesn’t mention the fact that Bertie looks way too old to be in university at the same time as Hamid, but considering how he’s launched into a monologue about — Zolf can’t actually tell — well. That just about explains it. “Right,” he says, straightening, as Azu gets the group back on track.

There are two Sashas in the group - Sasha James and Sasha Jaime - who look nothing alike and have never met. There’s a jumpy androgynous kid named Sam who can’t be more than thirteen by Zolf’s estimates, and a quiet American called Zeke. The wiry men who’d arrived even earlier than Zolf are Veseek and Grizzop, respectively, and the latter looks like he’s been forcibly dragged into the room. Then there’s Zolf himself - “Just Zolf, thanks,” he clarifies gruffly to a room of people who already know who he is, second name be damned - and Hamid, who introduces himself with somewhere between three and five names. Saleharounaltahan kind of gets lost in translation.

And Bertrand, of course, who’s already insistent on starting the conversation. He’s bowled over Azu’s invitation for “a short icebreaker - why don’t we share a bit about ourselves? Why we’re here, if we’re comfortable?” and has propelled himself straight into another monologue. Zolf gives Hamid a significant look as Bertie recounts some ‘traumatic’ experience about a — a roof and a dog? Or maybe it was just a very ugly child — Zolf honestly can’t keep up. Azu has Bertie on a timer by now and has allotted three more minutes before someone else gets a turn.

It’s stupid. It’s obnoxious. It’s something he’ll laugh about to Sasha later.

Then Bertie mentions the recent flooding in Dover — he’d been there with the dog, or perhaps the child — Zolf’s heart stops.

“You see, I do some trading,” Bertie begins as the world jumps into the pit of Zolf’s stomach. “Dover’s a good place for trading, you know. Very — smart. A very smart place to trade! So—” _Listen, you meritocratic dirtbag,_ says a memory louder than any blustering prick, _I have full jurisdiction from the American United Forces to do whatever is necessary to make you talk. And I will._ “—clearly, I was in the utmost peril—” Instinct had kicked in, then, said, _if you’re quiet, he’ll think you have information. If he thinks you have information, he’ll keep you alive._ “—and everyone knows that Dover’s _quite_ the place to wash up precious things on shore, don’t we, Mr Smith? Hm?”

 _Play nice,_ said that Southern drawl, unwrapping the bandages on Zolf’s already infected leg. _If you’re more trouble than you’re worth, I’ll have no problem letting you fall._ “What?” Zolf asks, his breathing a bit too shallow, and he squares his shoulders. He’s not giving Bertie the satisfaction.  

“Well, you know,” says Bertie from across the room, grinning to himself, “I was in Dover when the temple pulled you out, and it did cause quite a commotion, hm?”

“Mr MacGuffingham—” Azu starts, but Bertie pays her no mind.

“Thought it was rather pithy, myself,” he continues, and Zolf can feel his cheeks heat. He’s not sure if it’s with anger or embarrassment or shame.

“Bertrand, that’s enough,” Azu cuts in again, sterner this time.

“—that you lost your sailing legs, yes, but you got your _sea leg_ when you got back, hm?” Bertie finishes, and glances towards the prosthetic. “But I digress. Brutor—”

“I said that’s _enough!”_ Azu snaps, but it’s too late.

Zolf settles on anger. It’s definitely anger. The room is dead quiet and a noise like the ocean rushes in his ears. The story is public enough: that Zolf was pulled out of the sea, barely breathing, with double pneumonia and bleeding from the stump of a leg that had been hacked off at the knee, but _this._ This is something completely different. This is a joke at Zolf’s expense that wasn’t even a proper punchline, just a tangent, a piece of Bertie’s self-centred puzzle. If Azu hadn’t stopped him, he’d still be talking.

Zolf stands up. His voice is low, quiet, furious. All of this has happened in barely an instant. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

“Bertrand, out,” Azu says, and her voice brokers no argument. Zolf’s glare is so scorching as to be cold again.

“No,” he tells her, taking a step forward. His hands are clenched into fists. “It’s alright. C’mon then, Bertie. What the hell did you just say to me?”

There’s a long, swollen pause. Then: “I—”

“Nope,” says Azu, and her voice is kind but firm. “No. I’m making an executive decision as the leader of this group that you, Mr MacGuffingham, are a distraction and a disturbance to the health and wellbeing of the other patients, and if I ever see you here again, I will be calling security.” Bertie opens his mouth to speak, but Azu holds up one hand, and despite the fluorescent lights, she looks divine. “This is not a democracy. _Get. Out.”_

Zolf sits back down.

Hamid leans over, whispers, “Are you—”

“Fine,” Zolf hisses, and sits on his hands.

* * *

Azu keeps Zolf behind after the session ends. He hasn’t said a word since Bertie left, and the good doctor has a furrow between her brows. He’s pretty sure she’s over a foot taller than him, and he doesn’t like it. “Zolf, I’d like to apologise for what happened earlier,” she says, and he clears his throat.

“Not your fault.”

“All the same, it happened under my watch,” Azu says, but Zolf just looks to the floor. “That’s my responsibility.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s my job to make sure you’re okay,” Azu continues, and she sounds so genuine he almost feels guilty. “To provide an environment where you’re comfortable. If there’s any way that I can—”

“Hey, Zolf?” Sasha calls as she pokes her head around the door. “The reception desk lady said I could — oh.”

“Hey, Sasha,” Zolf says with a tired smile, and he suddenly looks much older than he is. “Sorry for being late.”

“‘S… no problem,” says Sasha slowly, and — are her eyes lingering on Azu’s tattoo? Nope. That’s ridiculous. Zolf is imagining things. “You ready?”

“More than,” Zolf sighs, pushing himself up from the chair and limping towards the door, where Sasha’s already made herself available as a crutch. _Damn,_ he needs to get the hang of this thing. “Thanks, Azu.”

“I’ll see you next week,” Azu replies, and her smile is as much directed at Sasha as it is at Zolf. Okay. Maybe he _isn’t_ imagining things.

* * *

(“You should get a cane, you know,” Sasha says as they exit the building. “Help with balance and everything.”

“I’m thirty, not a hundred,” Zolf grumbles in return. “Besides, I don’t have the money for that.” Sasha makes a pointed, squeaky little noise as she gets in the car, and Zolf gives her a _look._ “Sasha.”

“Just saying.”

_“No.”_

“How’d therapy go anyway?” she asks as they head back home, and Zolf settles back in the passenger seat.

“Really couldn’t have gone worse.”

“You gonna go back?”

For some reason, he thinks about his short conversation with Hamid al-Tahan before he answers. “Think so, yeah.”)

**Author's Note:**

> of course, comments/kudos/etc are very deeply appreciated! I can be found over on tumblr @thoughtsbubble and on twitter @mostlyzoe. come talk to me about all things rusty quill! 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading. :)


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